Avalanches
by hell rings
Summary: The entire mission was far too easy for the prowess of the Varia - it was no wonder that Bel had been bored. It's one of the more predictable things about their youngest assassin. If there is nothing to do, Bel would find a way to turn it into something.


Raising his eyes in time to see Belphegor finally pull out the final knife from the man they had killed only moments ago, Mammon sighs quietly. A small puff of visible air floats away from his slightly parted lips, staying a while before dissipating in the air. They've spent enough time in this damned cold already, hunting down and slaughtering all those who had thought they could escape from them. Annoying. The longer they stay out, the less money they'll receive for completing the mission. Sighing again, the arcobaleno lowers himself to the ground before frowning sharply at the snow he's waist deep in.

"We need to go," he deadpans, whilst fighting back a shiver. He can _feel _the money - all of the beautiful money - slipping away from his grasp. "Bel."

The blonde in question slowly tilts his head to the side, keeping his full attention on the corpse at his feet. He's faced away from Mammon, can feel the baby's glare in his spine. It tingles, as if he was being burned. It's a funny kind of feeling. Like acid, he thinks. Only very different, and less chemical.

Bel drawls out a quiet hum, as he stalls to reply to him. A prince can answer his subjects whenever he pleases, right? But he answers fairly quickly... "The prince doesn't feel like leaving yet. I'm finally being entertained." Lightly kicking the man in the gut with his boot, Bel makes an amused sound at the blood seeping through and tainting the snow. "'Sides, it's so pretty out. Don't you think so too? The snow is fresh, and so is the blood. I just wish there were more peasants to kill."

"We're going." Mammon clicks his tongue and looks away. It's getting dark out - the setting sun painting a hazy pink, orange, and purple hue to the sky and clouds. Bristling at the chill of a breeze that gusts by, he floats up again, and looks back to the so called 'prince.' He was crouched down now, for some insufferable reason Mammon couldn't possibly fathom, probably slicing the man up more than necessary.

This entire mission was far too easy for the prowess of the Varia; it was no wonder that Bel had been bored. It's one of the more predictable things about their youngest assassin. If there is nothing to do, Bel would find a way to turn it into something. Either that, or he would retreat to his room and sleep. But now is not the time for either. Why, for Mammon's awaiting check's sake, would Belphegor choose now to do this?

With a tilt up of the prince's head is a signal to Mammon that the insufferable blonde had heard him, but he continues to cut up the dead man with some kind of morbid curiosity and glee that makes the illusionist truly worried for Belphegor's sanity. Of all of the Varia, he is certainly the most... off. Not to say that they were all a bit _off_, but none of them were the ones to murder their entire family and seek refuge and work from the deepest recess of the mafia.

At the age of _eight_, no less.

Mammon opens his small mouth to say something but closes it, crossing his arms and holding back another sigh. If Bel is going to be childish and irrational, arguing with him will not prove to be any help. He'll only either ignore him, argue back, or (attempt to) stab him. Or something along those lines. Again, Belphegor was predictable in that way.

Moving silently through the air to get a better view of what the Varia's resident prince is particularly doing, the arcobaleno has a hard time keeping a face of slightly miffed but otherwise nonchalant expression.

Belphegor, not so surprisingly, had ripped into the man's chest and was effectively trying to pull out one of the ribs with his hand. His entire right arm was coated with blood, and the left arm was not too far from being in the same condition. With a disgustingly wet snapping sound, it was not a long wait until the young royal did get the rib. With an entirely too pleased sound of approval, Bel stands up and holds the thing like a personal trophy, relishing in the color and the silky way the droplets of blood slides off the surface and drips onto the ground.

"I'm done."

And that was it, simply. _I'm done_, and apparently Bel expects him to be happy with this turn of events? Mammon pinches the bridge of his little nose and drops the subject before he starts it. Patience is a virtue, and they've already sinned here enough. "Alright," Mammon begrudingly answers back, brushing the watery snow off of the coat of his uniform. "No distractions. The jet is waiting, and boss will be furious if we're any more late than we already are. It's costing me my valuable money and time."

Bel grins his usual, all too large smile for his face, grin and shrugs. "If you say so." There's a beat, a thought out pause. "Mammy."

"_Wha_-don't call me that. Four hundred euros for such a ridiculous name."

"Mm, the prince thinks he will have to pass on that. I don't have to listen to a commoner's demands, you know." He begins to march off, clutching his gory prize tightly in his bloody hands. "I don't know what to do with this when we get home," Belphegor says wistfully after a few precious moments of silence, and watches the dying sunlight over the horizon. It's considerably darker than it was only a mere few minutes ago. Mammon will personally give the prince hell if they get lost in the wilderness and unable to find their scheduled ride back to Italy.

He'll be sure to kill Belphegor and eat him first, if it comes down to it. Mammon can't actually stomach the thought, but it's reassuring to know that at least he'll die of something less violent than being knifed to death. Starvation or hypothermia does sound better than being lacerated...

"Then why are you keeping it?" He warily asks, giving his teammate a dry stare. "There is not much you can do with someone's severed rib."

"The prince doesn't know. Why do you keep money?"

Mammon bristles and floats ahead of him at a faster pace, not feeling the energy to explain it to him. Belphegor has never really had a purpose, has he? "You wouldn't understand."

He tunes out Bel's infectious laughter at his response, and lets out a breath he didn't know he had been holding in when he sees the glistening lights of the jet poke through the trees.


End file.
